Reunion
by Apocalypticism
Summary: "I just want to know why. Why did you take so long? I'm a grown man, I have my own family, my own life, and all without you. Why now, why not fifteen years ago when I needed you?"
1. Chapter 1

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Reunion

The air was cold. A biting wind blew through Arnold's hair, threatening to lift his hat off his head. He could barely feel the iciness of the wind; he was burning too hot inside. It was rare for him to be this angry. He could only recall one other person who had ever infuriated him this much.

His feet pounded on the ground as he ran through the streets. He was intent only on reaching his destination. Finally, with his chest heaving, Arnold found the family plot in the cemetery. Two headstones stood out to him. Arnold looked at them for a long while, not sure if he wanted to cry or kick down the headstones.

After some deliberation, he did both, not bothering to stem the flow of tears from his eyes. The only other time he cried like this was when Grandpa gave up, holding a funeral for his son and daughter-in-law, burying empty caskets. Arnold bit his lip and kicked both headstones. Neither moved, and Arnold didn't feel any better. His foot just hurt, adding to how much he was hurting inside.

He grabbed the light blue hat off his head and threw it on the ground before stepping on it with his foot. Arnold crushed the hat into the ground.

"How could you leave me?" he wanted to shout. "How!"

But he didn't. Arnold wiped off his face then stuffed his hands into his coat's pockets. He turned on his heel and walked back to the boarding house, which he now ran in addition to his other job. His wife was still there, probably confused as to where he went. He owed her an explanation, but he had a feeling she wouldn't need one, she would already know.

Staring at the green door, Arnold took a deep breath and steeled himself. He pulled the door open and stepped inside. He hung his coat in the closet, then walked slowly towards the sitting room, where voices could be heard talking.

It made his stomach turn with feelings he couldn't even give names too, seeing his parents sitting there, talking to his wife. They looked nothing like the image of them he kept tucked away in the very bottom of his heart. They were withered, old, grey, and shaking.

"I'm sorry," Arnold started, announcing his presence, "I just needed a moment to myself."

He took a seat next to his wife, then grabbed her hand and squeezed it as hard as he could.

"That's understandable, Arnold," his mother said. "We were just telling Helga about our time in—"

"I don't care," Arnold cut her off. "I just want to know why. Why did you take so long? I'm a grown man, I have my own family, my own life, and all without you. Why now, why not fifteen years ago when I _needed_ you?"

"Son, you need to understand that we lost our papers, we couldn't get anywhere. We were stuck where we were."

"You said you got granted entrance into the US ten years ago!" Arnold said, trying to keep his voice level.

"That was because we saw these people were hurting," Stella said, her voice soft. "They had been so kind to us, nursing us back to health, opening their homes to us... We needed to repay them."

"They needed you more than your own son?" Arnold said quietly.

"Maybe they did, maybe they didn't, but our choice has already been made, and we can't change what we did," Miles said.

"I just... I thought you were dead for so many years... I had accepted that I would never know my parents, and now, you just come back into my life, I don't, I don't even know what to say," Arnold couldn't keep his voice from cracking.

"You don't have to say anything, Arnold," Stella said. "We know this must be so painful for you, so the choice is up to you."

"I won't make any more excuses," Miles said, his voice breaking. "Yes, we chose helping other people over being there to raise our own son. We're sorry for choosing it, but we can't change it. We just want to make up for the times we missed while we still can."

"If you were dead or still alive, I don't care, just go and leave this all behind, because I swear, I don't care," Arnold rose to his feet and left the room.

He walked upstairs to his old bedroom, which was now his fourteen year old son's room. The room was still the same as it was when he slept in it, except his son was not as neat as he was. The spot on the shelf where Arnold had kept the little blue hat burned empty, just like his head. He hadn't worn the hat for years, and now it had likely blown away with the wind, never to be seen again.

His heart was burning. Arnold reached out over his son's desk and flipped the picture of Miles and Stella face-down. He couldn't stop the tears from coming again. Arnold didn't know what to do. He hated his parents, he hated them! They had abandoned him, they didn't love him enough to come back to be with him, they didn't do this, they didn't do that! But yet, his parents were sitting in his sitting room, they had come back! They weren't dead, they were alive! His optimistic hope from so many years ago had turned out to be true.

Arnold choked back a sob as he sat down in the desk's chair, burying his face in his hands.

Did he truly not care?

–

Not sure what this is either. I randomly listened to Apocalyptica's I Don't Care, and bam, idea.

I feel like Arnold is ooc, but really, he's probably mid-forties here, and had a lot of time to think about his parents and such, time to grow bitter, not be such an optimist, etc., etc., etc..

I am not unemployed! Yay! I really don't like the job though. I have to be _cheerful_ all the time. But the job was hard to get, so I can't just up and quit either. Boo being an adult and needing money to live.


	2. Chapter 2

Arnold sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his pyjama pant covered knees. His parents were sleeping in the guest bedroom. The ceiling still leaked a little from when Grandpa drilled holes in it to get back at his sister, but it was a decent room for the most part.

Letting out a sigh, Arnold ran his hand through his thinning hair. Grandpa had always told him stories about his parents. In those stories, they were brave and courageous; they were upstanding people. They always did the right thing. They cared about other people, but they also loved their son. They loved their son above anything else.

Arnold looked up into the bathroom where Helga was washing her face off. She saw Arnold looking at her in the mirror and turned around with a hand on her hip and a frown on her face.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, wringing out the washcloth before walking out of the bathroom.

Arnold felt the bed sag as Helga took a seat next to him. She put her arms around him, touching her cheek to his. Arnold wound his arms around hers, burying his face in her neck. He couldn't find the words to explain how he felt. Helga might have been able to explain herself beautifully with words, but Arnold couldn't. He just sat there, with his face against her skin, inhaling the scent of that perfume she always wore.

"Dad?" a young boy's voice startled Arnold and Helga out of their embrace. "There's a creepy guy in the kitchen!"

Arnold got up and walked over to his son, shutting the door quietly. He knelt down next to the boy, putting his hand on his shoulder.

"That's your Grandpa Miles... my father," Arnold said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "He and your Grandma Stella are here, staying in the guest bedroom."

"But... you, you said that you had to—"

"I know, I'm very surprised too. It's late though, and we can talk about it tomorrow morning," Arnold said.

"You said that they were dead!" his son burst out.

"I know what I said!" Arnold snapped. "Go to bed, Nathaniel. Go."

Nathan bit his lip, but said goodnight and left the room. His father hardly ever raised his voice like that. He figured that his father was really upset, but why? His parents were really alive, instead of being dead! His father should be happy about that.

So Nathan decided to sneak back downstairs. He hoped Grandpa Miles was still down in the kitchen.

Nathan entered the kitchen under the pretence of getting a glass of milk. His grandpa was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. He didn't look up when Nathan entered, instead he just stared pensively into the teacup.

"So, are you a new boarder or what?" Nathan asked, grabbing a glass from the cupboard.

His grandpa started, looking around and finally resting his eyes on Nathan. Nathan watched the old man's eyes light up for a brief second before dimming again. Even though his heart was pounding, Nathan tried to act like he didn't really know or care.

But his father and his great grandfather had always told him stories about his grandparents. In those stories, his grandparents were on exotic adventures, doing great things, and helping people. His father had always shone with pride when he told those stories, but when he talked about them tonight, he just seemed tired and irritated, and not elated, like Nathan expected him to be.

"No... just staying here for a little while," Grandpa Miles said, his voice tired.

"Oh," Nathan sat across from his grandpa at the table. "You look like Dad."

The man sitting across from him blanched. Nathan watched him raise the teacup to his lips with shaking hands. The old man placed the teacup back on the scrubbed wooden table, then rested his elbows on the table, or at least attempted to. Nathan had to bite back a laugh as the old man's elbows slipped and he pitched forward a little before recovering himself.

"That's because I'm his father. I'm your grandpa, Miles," he said, cheeks flushing red.

"I know you are. Dad said you were dead. He said that a long time before I was born, he and his grandpa had buried you."

Miles didn't answer right away, but eventually he said, "Your dad wasn't wrong. If you hadn't heard from someone in thirty years, someone who was very close to you and would do everything they could to get in contact with you, what would you think?"

"That they were dead," Nathan answered slowly. "But if you weren't really dead, why didn't you let Dad know? He's really mad at you guys."

"That's something I can't really explain," Miles said.

"Yeah, right," Nathan crossed his arms and tipped the chair back so it was balancing on its back two legs. "If it's anything worth doing, it won't be easy. I bet there were a zillion ways you could have done something to let him know you were alive."

And with that, Nathan brought the chair back down to rest on four legs again. He drained his glass of milk, then got up and put the glass in the sink. Nathan left the room, leaving Miles sitting there and staring into the teacup.

–

Here is the second part. I think the next part will focus on Helga and then bring it full circle back to Arnold and we'll close this thing up as a three-shot.

I really tried to show Nathan as a mix of Arnold and Helga, with more of Helga's spitfire. And if you don't like the name Nathan, just imagine a different one in there.

House'llelujah!

C'est c'que je prie durant la nuit!

Agh. It will be in my head forever. Dangit, Stromae.


End file.
